Part 7 (1/2)

She felt more alone than she'd ever dreamed, more lonely than she'd ever admit. With a shaky little sigh, she shook her head and pushed the sleeves of her gown high to her elbows, and began to decide which paintings she would send to London.

If ever there were a fool's errand, thought Edward glumly, then this was it, conceived and executed wholly by himself, the greatest fool in Naples at present, which, considering the dim-witted populace of Naples, was no mean accomplishment.

Yet he'd come this far, and now he'd see the foolishness through. A fool he might be, but he didn't quit. Wryly he looked down at the dark red shawl folded over his arm, the long fringes clinging to his sleeve and the rich color of the fine wool glowing in the half-light of the staircase. The shawl's owner glowed like that, too, bright in any shadow, and he resisted the temptation to brush his fingers over the soft cloth again. Last night when he'd gallantly offered to return the shawl to Francesca Robin after she'd left it behind at the amba.s.sador's palazzo, he'd no idea how sensuously evocative a mere strip of cloth could be.

It wasn't just the softness of the wool that reminded him of her skin, or the color that made him think of how her skin turned golden by candlelight. It had been the scent that had clung to the shawl, her scent, spicy and exotic, so filling the closed chaise on his ride back to the inn that he'd thrown open the window to the chilly night air rather than let his senses be overwhelmed.

Velvety skin, pale gold and scented with orange-blossoms and jasmine, a laugh so deep and full of husky promises, a full red mouth made for kissing, made for teasing, made for a man to savor...

Oh, aye, he was a fool, all right, letting himself dwell so indulgently on this sc.r.a.p of fabric, as if he'd nothing more worthwhile to occupy his thoughts. He grumbled wordlessly and shook his head as he headed up the stairs. The door had been open, and though he'd knocked, no servant had appeared to let him in. He remembered the way to the signora's studio, though, and even if she weren't within-and it would likely be best if she weren't-then he'd place the shawl where she'd find it, and leave.

Simple, direct, and uncomplicated, the way he liked to conduct his life. The way he did conduct it, when he wasn't letting himself be beguiled by some infernal Neapolitan chit.

So why, then, was his heart racing with inappropriate antic.i.p.ation?

”Signora Robin?” he called heartily at the door of the studio, not wanting to seem furtive or to frighten her. ”Signora Robin! Are you within, miss?”

She was, turning gracefully to meet his gaze before sinking into a curtsey. ”My lord captain,” she murmured. ”Buon giorno.”

But though the words might have been the same ones she'd used to greet him and Henry Pye, nothing else was. The cheerful clutter of her studio had been scattered in a whirlwind of destruction, her expression of forlorn determination at odds both with her curtsey and her welcome. This time she wore a coa.r.s.e linen ap.r.o.n instead of a silk gown, no jewelry beyond small gold hoops in her ears, her dark hair bound in a tight braid beneath a peasant-woman's kerchief.

”What has happened here?” he demanded, aghast. ”Who did this?”

”Who, indeed?” Wearily she glanced around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ”The best answer the constable could offer was to say it was someone who didn't care for me.”

She gave a sad small laugh, and held up a painting that had been slashed, a portrait of some elegant lady whose painted throat had been jaggedly cut. ”He told me I should be grateful they hadn't done this to me instead, as if that were any sort of solace.”

”But that is reprehensible!” exclaimed Edward, outraged. ”For your property to be vandalized like this and you to be insulted-”

”These are troubled times, my lord,” she said, carefully setting the ruined painting down on a bench. ”That is what the constable told me, and what I must accept.”

”But that is not the point,” he began, then paused. What exactly was his point? That she'd been robbed, and received no satisfaction from those appointed to help her? Or was it more selfish-that she wasn't the gaudy, flirtatious creature he'd come half-hoping to see again, but a real, more genuine woman facing serious difficulty?

”Troubled times, my lord,” she said wistfully, as if comforting him instead. ”Dangerous times, too, even for poor artists like me.”

”I can have a crew of men here in an hour, signora,” he volunteered firmly, more of an order than an offer. ”If they can make the Centaur's deck spotless four hours after a battle, think of how swiftly they'll put things to rights for you here.”

”And doubtless more tidy than they've ever been before, eh? Ah, to make me as s.h.i.+pshape as that waistcoat of yours!” For the first time her smile seemed to carry a share of her old merriness as she wagged her finger at him, a sly version of every nagging fisherman's wife. ”Am I so disreputable that you would rather set your poor men to women's work than leave it to my unworthy hands?”

”I intended to offer you a.s.sistance, signora,” he said stiffly. ”I meant no insult to your, ah, housewifery skills.”

She curtsied broadly, spreading the skirts of her white ap.r.o.n as wide as a sail. ”Ah, mi dispiace, mio egregio signore, mi dispiace!”

He hated it when she spoke in Italian like this. His grasp of the language was slight at best, his vocabulary heavily weighted toward navigation and s.h.i.+pyards, and he had a constant, secret fear that every Neapolitan was mocking him without him understanding a single, singsong word of the insult.

”Look here, now, signora,” he said, trying to sound stern rather than merely exasperated. ”I'm not about to carry on a conversation when I cannot tell what in blazes you're saying.”

”Ah.” She stood upright, and let her skirts drop to her sides. ”I said I was a wicked untidy wench, and then I said I was sorry, my dear sir, very sorry. And I am, too. It's only that certain Italian words are much more, ah, expressive than English. I often don't even realize that I've chosen one over the other, you know.”